Cliche
by zorrie
Summary: This is the point at which they reach maximum velocity and hurtle into god-knows-what, with only jagged spikes waiting to catch them should they fall. Vague spoilers, not-quite-slash


this is my first stab at DN fanfic, and seeing as i'm not really brave enough to take on Mello and keep him in-character, i settled for a little introspective bit with Mello through Matt's eyes. 'tis slashy :) the beginning isn't too hot, but it gets better. hope it makes the grade.

disclaimer: yeah, i own Death Note. just the books. the sexy characters and genius storylines? definitely none of my devising.

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Matt waches the erratic fire dance in Mello's eyes, although the phrase is such a damn cliché – but isn't his life one, and isn't it only fitting?

Matt is thoroughly disgusted, although with exactly what, with whom, or even why – he can't say. He wants there to be another way. He knows there can't be. He wishes he hadn't seen this coming, so that he could at least gripe about what ifs. But Matt understood this was to be their inevitable conclusion years and years ago, and he'd chosen it still. All things considered, now that his back is up against the wall and he knows for the first time in his life what it means to be truly shit-scared _terrified_, he'd choose it still. _Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it._

He knows why. Mello does, too.

Mello.

Of all the things Matt has never wanted, of all the things Matt has ever needed, Mello is it.

.

Mello gnaws on a black painted nail, and the background seems to blur into nonexistence. The shit's hit the fan, and here they are left to grapple madly in this upside-down inside-out no-gravity zone where the only laws that hold true are that everything, everything is as bad as it seems. Usually worse.

It's with the sweetest sadness that Matt chuckles dryly and stubs out his cigarette on the tawdry hotel bedpread, then stands and opens his arms. Mello doesn't blink, just steps forward and gives Matt a tired, crooked grin. When everything is a moot point there is no need for words.

_Whatever goes around comes around._

Why not have a fucking cliche marathon, why not? Matt is sapped and crushed and self indulgent, but he's earned every second of it. If anyone has the right to languish in their own sorrows, it's him.

_Forgive and forget._

Let's not leave out the political cliches, Matt thinks sourly, weasel words, association fallacies and false dichotomies. _If we gave it to you, we'd have to give it to everyone_. Bullshit.

_That's just a (liberal/conservative/libertarian/communitarian/insert-party-here) argument._

And now the American government is going to roll over and play dead in response to the threat of Kira.

_If you are not with us, you are against us._

And now Mello is going to go off in a _blaze of glory_, and probably get himself killed.

Neither of them have ever put much stock in martyrdom, considering it a useless enterprise. In Whammy's House with blithe teenage naivete, they'd tarred them all with the same brush and called martyrs wasted fools.

Oh, the things they'd done then. The terrible, wonderful, stupid things they had done. Matt marvels at those escapades, late nights when he lies on his back in bed and counts the cars humming over the pavement outside the window. Watching light stripe the ceiling as headlight glare flits through the venetian blinds, Matt remembers those days flashing, pretty, jewel-bright and gone so fast but packed enough to feel like lifetimes, memories that were supposed to fade but are instead so sharp still that they'll slice him open if he tries to hold them close. He's tired and his thoughts tangle confusingly until Matt wants only to lie himself down and let it all be over. Soon enough, Matt thinks, and the shock of that realization filters through the apathy of burnout. Mello shuffles forward and Matt leans bonelessly against him, and they're rocking back and forth, so slow. It's Endgame coming up for both of them. It's only beginning to sink in. No doubt he'll feel it more in a few hours time, with caffeine in his system and another hit of nicotine.

But what's relevant here is that then and now, he and Mello always called them fools, Socrates and Joan of Arc and all the rest. Now they're about to join those ranks.

It is the _ultimate irony_.

Oh, yes, Matt is sick of cliches.

.

Although his life does not flash before his eyes, Matt's no less sure this is it, the grand finale after which their shallow imprint on the world will fade until there's nothing left at all. This is the point at which they reach maximum velocity and hurtle into god-knows-what, with only jagged spikes waiting to catch them should they fall. And Mello, in the flesh, standing before him like some deity come to earth in the skin of a mortal man; Mello, larger-than-life with an unrestrainable energy yet thinner than Matt himself, with bones so close to the surface that seemed delicate as a sparrow's; Mello whose scathing, serrated wit was matched only by the warmth and softness of his hands, though they were calloused, and his lips, though they were chapped; Mello, is moving to wrap his arms around Matt's waist and bury his face in the curve of his shoulder.

_Justice delayed is justice denied_, the cliché parade continues incessant, as though Matt needs a reminder of why they're here, together, at all. Matt loathes, despises Kira; how could he not? And Kira took L. That knowledge congeals like a leaden lump lodged in his intestines, and Matt swallows down bile. His chest is tight. They're going up against the man who took L out of the game.

Matt shivers.

_But Kira brought him Mello_. Matt's suddenly, fervently thankful Mello can't read his mind, although there are moments he doesn't doubt Mello knows what he's thinking better than he himself. This time, however, Matt's thoughts are so absurd and unsolicited that there's no way Mello could begin to suspect their nature.

Because of Kira, Mello was nearly destroyed. Yet Matt is under no delusions that the madcap, brilliant, gorgeous man in his arms would not have found an end for himself otherwise. It would have been another venue, then, had Kira not supplied the disaster. If Matt has a junkie personality, Mello is impulsive, compulsive even, far beyond reform. Kira nearly destroyed Mello, but Kira brought him back to Matt in time for Matt to save him. Had it been another time, another place, Matt doesn't know whether he'd have had that chance. He harbors strong suspicions, but he does his best never to let them see the light of day.

All that matters is Mello, holding the two of them together; Mello, always undaunted. If, in any way at all, they can get through this, then Mello will see them through. Matt will be watching his back the whole way. If they don't make it through, then there will have been nothing anyone could have done. _Everything's coming up roses_, Matt thinks randomly, and wonders where his subconscious is getting off at feeding him these ridiculous lines.

Matt slides his fingers under Mello's whorish leather vest and up his back to take his mind off of everything. Palms pressing against bare skin at the small of Mello's back, where they elicit the sweetest sounds he's ever heard, Matt lets his head fall back and sighs. Yes, Mello is it for him, and all the shit will always be worth it if he can just have these stolen seconds before they go rushing back to the war.

Mello, overwhelming everything, even when Matt knows he shouldn't, and shouldn't be letting him, but oh well – and Matt _can't see the forest for the trees_, hell he can't see anything at all because everywhere he looks there's only Mello – but Matt can't bring himself to care. _For thee the earth puts forth sweet flowers_, Matt remembers, and _don't fix what isn't broken_.

And cliches are cliches because they are true.


End file.
